Eclectic Tastes Indeed
by volatile-hearts
Summary: Several writing prompts involving ten characters from Teen Wolf, Sherlock, Doctor Who, Supernatural, and Good Omens.
1. A Prologue of Sorts

Said prompt was:

1. Write down the names of ten characters.

2. Write a fic of fifty words or less for each prompt, using the characters determined by the numbers. Do NOT read the prompts before you do Step 1.

The Dramatis Personae

1. Stiles Stilinski (TW)  
2. Derek Hale (TW)  
3. John Watson (Sherlock)  
4. Molly Hooper (Sherlock)  
5. The Doctor (DW)  
6. Rory Williams (DW)  
7. Dean Winchester (SPN)  
8. Sam Winchester (SPN)  
9. Bobby Singer (SPN)  
10. Aziraphale (Good Omens)

As a sidenote: the main characters listed for the story are the ones that get featured in the prompts the most, so at the moment it's Stiles and Rory. Subject to change, though.


	2. A Most Unusual First Meeting

1)._ First time, 4 and 6_ - Molly Hooper and Rory Williams

This was a weird one. There was nothing left but skin - no muscles, no bones, no internal organs. Molly reached for the phone intending to call Sherlock, until she remembered she couldn't - he was dead to the world. She felt a pang of sadness, knowing he would have loved this case.

Just as she was exiting the morgue to grab a cup of coffee and a breather, a man with blonde hair, a big nose, and thick glasses that hid blue eyes, blocked the entry way.

"Oh," she said surprised.

"Oh, um, hello," he responded just as surprised as she was, "I didn't think anyone else would be here."

"Yeah, I just - " Molly tried, but instead asked, "Can I help you?"

"Uhh... yes. Yes, actually," he said, hesitant at first, but quickly deciding something, "I'm hear to see the body, errr, or skin of the body."

"Are you part of the investigation?"

"Ahh, yes. Dr. Rory Williams," he said, sticking out his hand, "I've been called in specially."

Molly smiled sadly, and shook his hand.

"Well, Dr. Williams. Right this way," she said, leading him over to the table. As they walked, Rory Williams asked, "Have you ever heard of the Slitheen?"


	3. A Plastic Bracelet and Forgiveness

2). _Angst, 7_ - Dean Winchester

He felt broken and guilty. But mostly he felt guilty. Beautiful blue skies without a cloud in sight. Sitting on a park bench watching children play, he felt he didn't deserve it.

He had cut into human souls on the rack. They may not have been innocent but he was supposed to be better than this. Anyone who tortured, sliced, and burned souls shouldn't be able to feel the sunshine or - if Dean was some sappy sentimentalist - the musical sound of kids laughing.

So wrapped up in his pain and doubt he didn't notice the little girl approach him. She had skin the color of hot cocoa, hair pulled into three ponytail braids that bounced when she walked, and the sweetest brown eyes that had ever existed.

"Hey, mister, are you okay?"

Dean looked up and they sized each other up, him in his heavy leather jacket and steel-toed boots, her in her powder blue overalls and yellow rain boots.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he finally replied.

"My momma says 'fine' stands for freaked-out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional."

He paused to blink at her, and was about to say something when she continued right on past him.

" 'Sides, you don't look fine. You look sad." She looked down at him with compassionate eyes. He looked away, pretty sure that if he kept eye contact he would break down crying. Not exactly something we could get away with in public. He felt a feather light touch on his hand and saw a small hand there.

The little girl spoke up, "It's okay to be sad."

Dean cleared his throat. "You should leave. I'm a bad person."

"Why?" she said, unmoving, "You don't look like a bad person."

A choked laugh escaped, "I've done bad things, kid."

She pulled her hand back. "Oh."

Dean expected her to run back to her mom, but instead she just stood there staring at the ground, her eyebrows furrowed. Dean watched captivated as she nodded her head, coming to a decision and removing one of the colorful bracelets from her wrist. Then, she picked up his hand and carefully placed the plastic beaded bracelet in his palm.

"Well, I forgive you," she explained as she gently curled his fingers around it, "that way you don't have to be so sad anymore."

A woman called across the playground, "Lindsey!"

"I gotta go," the little girl said, "But I hope you don't feel so sad."

And with that she turned and ran back to her mom. Dean watched her go, before slipping the bracelet reverently into his inner jacket pocket. Even if he couldn't forgive himself, at least one little girl did.


	4. A Friendship Based on Mutual Interest

3). _AU, 1 and 8_ - Stiles Stilinski and Sam Winchester

A sprained wrist and two cracked ribs made hunting hard. But the concussion and two _broken_ ribs Dean had made it impossible. So for the time being Sam was stuck at Bobby's while he and his brother recovered.

The problem with recovering was it was boring as hell. And there were only so many of Bobby's books he could read before that too lost its appeal. Sam finally booted up his laptop and opened up a web browser. After a few minutes of searching, he came across a chat forum asking some rather oddly specific questions.

**lycantaxi24**: Does anyone know what kind of creature can mimic the dead? You know like the voices of people you know are dead but really wish they weren't?

**lycantaxi24**: and it possibly hangs out in creepy forests.

**lycantaxi24**: and leaves a bunch of dead bodies in its wake.

"Huh," he muttered aloud, scrolling through the post seeing mostly trolls and stupid guesses. Lycantaxi24 responded to each one, sounding increasingly frustrated, and a little bit desperate. Sam reached the end and typed back.

**mythology_buff**: That sounds kind of familiar. Have you looked into crocotta?

Sam refreshed the page a couple of times and finally saw the reply.

**lycantaxi24**: what? the half-lion half-hyena monster from India? yeah, no haven't seen any of those running around.

Sam shook his head at that; rather impressed at the depth of his research. But there was something off about the wording of that last statement.

**mythology_buff**: running around?

**lycantaxi24**: figure od tspeech no monsters here, running around or otherwise

**lycantaxi24**: *of speech sorry

**mythology_buff**: riiiiiiight.

**lycantaxi24**: why does your right have so many 'i's?

**mythology_buff**: no reason. did you know some myths state they hide in human form?

**lycantaxi24**: that makes more sense. how do you kill it? supposedly.

**mythology_buff**: sharp objects.

**lycantaxi24**: that doesn't sound very mythical.

Sam snorted.

**lycantaxi24**: so any sharp object will do?

He thought a while and then made a bit of rash decision that Bobby would definitely disapprove - Dean too. He typed anyways.

**mythology_buff**: yeah. also, crocotta live in filth. you should be able to find it in an extremely dirty place.

He held his breath, to see if his gamble paid off.

**lycantaxi24**: so like a garbage dump at the edge of town?

Sam grinned. Looked like he had found a new hunter, clearly struggling on his own.

**mythology_buff**: exactly. but you should be careful. they eat souls.

**lycantaxi24**: according to the myths, right?

**mythology_buff**: sort of.

There was a long pause. Sam started to worry he'd said too much, when there was finally a response.

**lycantaxi24**: if I told you I thought werewolves were real, what would you say?

**lycantaxi24**: hypothetically speaking of course.

**mythology_buff**: of course.

**mythology_buff**: and I'd say stock up on silver bullets and salt.

Several thousand miles away "Stiles" Stilinski sat back in his office chair and exclaimed, "Salt?"

And so began a beautiful friendship in supernatural research.


	5. A Tale of Three Veterans

4). _Threesome, 3, 6, and 9_ - John Watson, Rory Williams, and Bobby Singer

"Well, this is a bit awkward," Rory says stiffly.

He's in a jail cell with two other men. Two sides of the cell are just bars, and the other two are solid walls with metal benches running against their length to meet in the corner forming an L-shape. They are all warily standing around; none quite willing to sit down and place themselves on a lower level than the others. All three of them were found at the scene of a particularly bizarre and gruesome murder.

"Rory Williams, how do you do," he introduces himself trying to break the ice somehow. He isn't supposed the meet up with Amy and the Doctor for another few hours. So they won't know he's missing for another few hours. Which means he's stuck in a tiny, barred dunk-tank with these two strangers for the next several hours.

"John Watson," the shorter man says. He's got sandy blond hair, a color that reminds Rory a bit of the desert for some reason, and hard worn lines on his face. Physically he looks older than Rory, as does the other man who actually has a full, graying beard.

"You're from across the pond, too?" Rory asks, a bit surprised by the accent. They are in the heartland of middle America, so the odds are slim that he'd meet another Englishman here.

"Great," the older man says, "Just my luck to get stuck with two Brits for the night."

John looks like he wants to scowl, as does Rory, but they politely keep the expression in check.

"Bobby Singer," the man grunts. "You folks mind telling me what you were doin' out there tonight?"

"I was... ahh -" Rory gets cut off when John interrupts sharply, "Private investigating. The last victim's mother hired us."

John's eyes are narrowed, and he's staring at Bobby with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

Bobby frown from underneath his hat, before staying, "Sylvia Montenegro?"

John nods tightly.

"Wait, you both know Sylvia?" Rory asks.

"Spoke to her yesterday," Bobby says gruffly, "What are you doing here?"

"A friend in the area was worried. Called in a - a friend... of mine, and asked if we could help," Rory finished lamely. "Why were you there?" he asks quickly before they can start asking about his supposed friend. Explaining how the TARDIS randomly dropped them here was not on his list of top ten things to-do.

"M'boys got themselves into a spot of trouble," Bobby says defensively, "Thought I could help them out."

Bobby stares at them menacingly. Every now and then 2,000 years of experience comes in real handy. Like now, when people might be lying to his face. Bobby's not lying per say; he's telling the truth or at least some version of it. John is telling the truth as well but not the whole truth either. They're all hiding something, but Rory has a feeling Bobby knows more about what's going on here than the rest of them. If the grave tenacity in his eyes is anything to go by.

"Trouble?" The suspicion on John's face has been completely replaced by confusion and curiosity, "What sort of trouble?"

There is a very long silence and Rory starts wondering if Bobby will actually say anything.

"They've gone missing," Bobby tells them finally.

"Wait, are they the latest victims?" Rory asks.

"Why wasn't this on the news?" John demands. He sounds angry, but there's something like worry just beneath the surface. "Why didn't you report this?"

"Because!" Bobby bursts out, "My boys are good kids, but they got a lot of trouble with the law. You think I'm gonna call in the cops to help just so they can take them away when they find him?" he says accusingly, looking between the other two, "I'll find them my own goddamn self. And you boys better stay out of this. Don't know what you're dealing with."

He moves to go sit down on the metal bench against the wall.

"I can take care of myself well enough," Rory says, a little bit of that Roman soldier showing through his stance.

"Son," Bobby starts derisively, folding his arms and tilting his head at Rory, "I don't care what kind of war you've been through, this ain't no terrorist shootin' at you. You're in over your head."

"Sorry," John interrupts brusquely, "You were in a war?"

"No," Rory answers. He's been in several, just not the one John is asking about.

"That's a bunch of malarkey," Bobby says, "I know a soldier when I see one, and both of you are soldiers. So cut the crap, and stay out of this."

"What do you know?" Rory asks sternly.

"None of yer damn business," Bobby practically growls.

"I'm pretty sure it's my business. My friends are out there waiting for me." Rory watches Bobby carefully for a reaction. "Looking for that thing as we speak."

"Thing?" John asks confusedly, "Don't you mean person?" He tries to suggest instead.

But Bobby is ignoring John. He's staring back at Rory just as intensely, but now he's looking at him less like an uncultured idiot and more like someone worth paying attention to.

"What are you sayin'?" Bobby asks carefully.

It's a test. Rory knows it. His eyes flick briefly to John. This might not end well, if John has no real idea of what's going on. Rory takes a leap of faith.

"Your boys, they're brothers, right?" Rory says.

Bobby doesn't say anything, but his silence is answer enough.

"Something out there is abducting siblings and then killing them," Rory pushes, "And you know what it is."

There is still a hint of confusion on John's face, but the way he is ignoring it and intently listening to Rory and Bobby instead of loudly demanding answer tells Rory is must be used to being left in the dark. There's a certain acceptance a person develops when they're constantly chasing after the only person who does know what' going on, but won't tell you. Rory sympathizes.

Bobby still hasn't said anything. Rory gives a little bit more, knowing he' risking sounding insane if he's wrong about Bobby.

"Something … not human."

Bobby's eyes widen. For a split second, Rory thinks he gambled on the wrong hunch, but suddenly recognizes the look in Bobby's eyes. It's not surprise tinged with fear; it's surprise at finding someone else who knows the bigger picture. Know the world is much much larger than what's seen on the surface.

"Maybe you can handle yourself," Bobby says approvingly. He leans forward a bit to see if any of the police or station workers are nearby by. He waves his hand at Rory, in a quick come here, motion.

"You can't be serious?" John says, just a little bit desperately, looking between the two of them. Bobby stares at John unimpressed, and Rory sort of shrugs his shoulders in apology as he goes to sit in the corner next to Bobby where the two benches meet.

"Oh my god, you're serious," John mutters softly, running his hands over his face. He looks critically at Bobby before saying, "All right. Let's hear it. What's killing these people?"

"The fae," Bobby says.

"What."

Rory can't help but mirror John's sentiment.

"Fae? As in fairies?" Rory asks. It wouldn't be the weirdest things he's come across.

"I hardly think Tinkerbell is murdering full grown men and women," John says bitingly.

"I hate Disney," Bobby says under his breath before speaking up, "No, like the fae in Grimm fairy tales. The kind that steal children and cook them just for kicks and giggles."

"Alright," Rory says slowly, trying to defuse the animosity, "Do you know why?"

"Some dumbass construction company is developing in the local woods. They tore out a patch of wild rose bushes about 3 weeks back."

"That was when the disappearances started," Rory says and Bobby nods.

"What do rose bushes have to do with anything?" John says aggravated. But he's stepped closer, and isn't talking as loud.

"Ever read the original Beauty and Beast?" Bobby asks John, "Or Tam Lin?"

"No," John responds.

"In the old stories, picking a rose summons the ruler of the place," Bobby explain, "But that's only part true. It sends a message to the fae that live within the area, usually the message is somewhere only the lines of someone is trespassing."

"So tearing out an entire bush is like declaring war," Rory finishes.

"The Ainsel Brothers & Co. have got a giant red target painted on their backs," Bobby says.

"But not everyone who died worked there." Rory points out.

"I have no idea why they're taking siblings," Bobby relents. Clearly frustrated.

"Maybe," John says, looking at the floor in concentration, "They confused the name of the construction company with actual brothers."

Rory and Bobby are staring at John.

"What?"

"That makes sense," Bobby says slowly, "Fae have never been known for interpreting human customs very well."

"Huh," John says, clearly mulling over the possibility that fairies exist.

They're silent for a few minutes. Before Rory speaks up, "So... now what?"

"Got a pack of cards?" Bobby suggests.

"I do," John says, pulling a white box covered in red pattern out of his jacket pocket. He sits down next to Rory on the metal, and starts to tap out the deck.

"Know any three player games?" Rory asks.

"Anybody against with five-card draw?"

When the guard passes by them again, he's a bit surprised to see the detainees getting along so well. Normally, at this point, they would have had to break up several fights, but the three men that had been picked up were in the corner playing cards, and telling what the guard could only assume were some really strange ghost stories.

* * *

A/N: threesome: _n_. a game or activity for three people.


	6. A Chance Meeting Over Bowties

5). _Hurt/Comfort, 5 and 10_- The Doctor and Aziraphale

He strolled casually between the aisles, until he reached the section of the department store he was looking for. While he hated leaving his bookstore more than necessary and he could fashion his own bowtie out of the ether - being an angel did have its perks - there was something pleasing about looking at all of the bowties, beautifully displayed in a variety of patterns and colors. Current trending styles might not be very important to someone who last changed their wardrobe in the 1940s, but they were still fun to look at.

His hand was reaching for a lovely red silk one when someone else snapped it up before him.

Aziraphale blinked a few times as he watched the gangly, brown-haired man quickly whip of the worn-down, beat-up, slightly singed, old red bowtie and put the new one on.

"What do you think?" he says, spinning just enough to make his jacket flare out and sweeps his hands out to his sides for an extra, dramatic effect.

"Oh, umm," Aziraphale says. There's something eerily familiar about this man like a memory that's dancing just out of reach, but the only way that could be true for Aziraphale is if he had met this man sometime in the early 5th century or so.

But that's clearly impossible so he just tells the young man, "It's quite cunning, I think."

"See!" he crows quite joyously, if a little over enthusiastically, then quietly and a bit sullenly, "I told Amy bowties are cool."

"Is everything alright, my dear chap?" Aziraphale asks concerned, wanting to ease pain and sadness wherever he saw it. Even over a bowtie.

The man looks up startled, as if he forgot Aziraphale was there.

It's then that Aziraphale gets a look into his eyes - they're old. Not as old as him mind you, but far older than any human's has right to be. Something clicks into place and Aziraphale smiles kindly.

"I'm sure, Doctor," Aziraphale begins, stepping into the alien's space and adjusting the fine, silk bowtie to be perfectly straight, "That your friend Amy was mistaken, and I can assure you that bowties are indeed very - uh - cool."

There's a beat where the Doctor looks like he wants to ask something.

"Angel approved," Aziraphale tries to assure, stepping back.

"Um, yes, of course!" the Doctor replies. There's a hint of disbelief still lurking in his eyes, but he appears to know better than to comment on it. "I'll have to tell her right away!"

There's something a bit false in that last statement. Fake cheer spread over a deeper hurt.

"I'm sure one day," Aziraphale says, consoling, "You will be able to see all your friends again. But perhaps not for a while longer. Until we meet again, Doctor."

With that he vanishes from the store, reappearing in the condo above his rare books shop and collection to make a fresh cup of tea, leaving the bowties for someone else to enjoy.


	7. A Lesson for the Unaware

6). _Crack**, 1_- Stiles Stilinski

Never leave a bunch of bored teenagers in your house. Especially if they have super-human werewolf powers.

Somehow the pack had gotten hold of a ludicrous amount of Mountain Dew. Beyond famous black-rapper levels of ludicrous and seriously edging towards ridiculous, obscene, and this is just stupid levels of ludicrous.

So, of course, Stiles decided to declare an open challenge to see who could drink the most of it in the least amount of time. Because really, what else did you do with that much soda?

Why he ever thought this was a rational decision to make is a mystery, because he is now surrounded by a five teenage werewolves on a caffeine high. This is either the best thing that has happened to him since he learned werewolves were a thing or the worst.

Fun fact: werewolf metabolism can only process a certain quantity of chemicals without being affected; they are not, in fact, completely immune. A speed up metabolism can only do so much for you.

It just takes an outrageous amount of the substance that would kill most humans, but when you're surrounding by 26 shopping carts brimming with litres of high-caffeine content soda. Those amounts suddenly become very achievable. Stiles still has no idea how Erica and Boyd managed to drag them up to the newly renovated Hale house, but he doesn't really want to think about it. Or about exactly how they acquired it, but regardless of where it had come from, all of them had taken him up on his challenge. Except Lydia who refused to participate in something so immature and clearly beneath her. She was now sitting in an armchair near the corner, a little further away from the mayhem, like a queen in a kingdom full of idiots who is too benevolent to murder them all in their sleep for the sheer mountains of stupidity they send her way.

Stiles was kind of bummed that the caffeine didn't affect him much. Before he was diagnosed, Mountain Dew had been his favorite soda. He was always begging his mom to buy it for him. After he was diagnosed, he's had to be a little more carefully about mixing his stimulants. Too much, and he'll feel too focused to really do anything, to the point where he wants to scream or brutally maim anyone who tries to interrupt him at his task.

Those first months or even the first year of trying to get the right dosage and combination of meds had been hard.

Right now though, he was mostly bummed he didn't have a video camera to record this shit. For posterity's sake, so he could show the future wolflings how idiotic their pack really is.

Erica is currently ripping apart throw pillows with her teeth. Her eyes wide and gleaming gold. Stiles could barely make out what she was saying around the fabric and goose feathers in her mouth. Something about how Derek has awful taste in colors and she's doing this as a service to him.

Stiles and Allison had dropped out of the competition early, but were now clutching their sides laughing, barely supporting each other's weight where they were slumped against the couch.

Both Isaac and Scott complained that they could hear the electricity buzzing and are now trying to fix the problem by removing the lightbulbs from the fixture above them.

While it's still on.

Isaac is attempting to remove the hot bulb, hissing and quickly retracting his fingers every time they started to burn against the glass. Gingerly screwing the bulb out little by little, while balancing atop of Scott, who is balancing atop the coffee table, which is in front of Stiles and Allison. They couldn't be bothered to go and find a ladder or - god forgive - a step stool; far too impatient to wait the entire minute it would take to find one.

A loud crash sounds through the open walkway that connected to the kitchen. Stiles crawls over the couch to hang his arms over the back of the couch to see what is was.

Boyd and Jackson have apparently found the source of the - in their own words - 'good smell.' All of the cabinets are thrown open, and objects the two wolves had deemed uninteresting lay discarded wherever they landed after being tossed away. The fridge door is swinging slightly, Stiles notices, and a glass container of something resembling homemade cranberry sauce is laying at the foot of the refrigerator, splattered along its shelves and all over the floor.

Stiles is about to suggest that Boyd and Jackson share the tupperware container that they are now trying to pull from the other's grasp like five year olds, when he sees that the trash can sitting on it's side, and garbage scattered across the kitchen.

He dissolves into another fit of giggles. It reminds him so horribly of last time Stiles ever gave into Scott's puppy eyes and agreed to take care of the foster dog Scott was looking after on behalf of Deaton. The McCalls were going on a three-day vacation to visit Scott's grandmother, and the one-year-old dog just couldn't be left on its one, and please Stiles? It's just for a few days. To be fair, Scott had warned him that the dog had a lot of energy and needed to exercised very regularly. Stiles didn't realize that regularly meant that if he missed one morning walk because he woke up late and had to rush to class, that he would come home to his kitchen destroyed and food and trash everywhere. The jokes about Jackson being an untrained, havoc-wreaking puppy are endless.

Scott and Isaac have apparently given up on the lightbulbs and where now rooting around in the hallway linen closet. Scott lets out a cry of joy and races back into the living room with a roll of toilet paper held high above his head. And Isaac chasing after him for it. Erica pauses in her redecorating (the couch is as stupid color as the throw pillows) and slips into the closet.

She comes back with armfuls of the stuff and a sinister grin on her face as Isaac and Scott made another lap around the room. Boyd now has Jackson in a headlock. The food lies forgotten on the floor between them. Erica pegs both of them squarely in the head with a roll of toilet paper, and literally cackles with laughter when they turn their attention on her.

Boyd releases Jackson to pick up the toilet paper. He and Jackson take a moment. They look at each other, then sport matching grins of revenge as they turn towards Erica. They come after her so quickly that she abandons the rest of the rolls in her haste to get ahead of them.

The roll Scott first took has somehow unraveled, and is now streaming around the room.

Stiles grins evilly, picking up some of the toilet paper Erica dropped and offering one to Allison. She grins in return and takes the roll. They start flinging them around the room at the running werewolves.

It's an all out war now. Rolls are flying everywhere, draping the entire room in flimsy paper. Stiles thinks there might be teams, but he can't tell who sided with who. All he knows is that he, Allison, and Lydia have strategically placed themselves on the edges of the room. Stiles has liberated some of the less mauled cushions to make a fort, and they are throwing rolls to each other and at anyone and everyone who crosses their path. The werewolves are chasing and pouncing on each other amongst the debris of the living room, inflicting TP related torture when they can.

There are shrieks of delight and peals of laughter, and Stiles hasn't felt this happy and light in a long time. Usually, the pack is so busy running for their lives or gripping at each other desperately as whatever new menace tries to pull them away that they never get to relax and just enjoy being together. He loves his ramshackle pack fiercely, and would die for them any given day. But it's nice to be reminded why he is so willing to risk his life for them.

Because now he's laughing so hard his stomach hurts and his eyes are watery.

Erica has Isaac pinned to the ground and is stuffing the innards of a couch cushion in his mouth. Scott has half of his body wrapped in toilet paper. He and Boyd appear to be in the process of turning Jackson into some sort of mummy. It's not working very well, since Jackson keeps squirming and getting away. Between the three of them, Stiles thinks it looks like some deranged form of monkey in the middle.

The wolves freeze, stock still, and the humans follow half a second behind their packmates. Someone is walking up the steps and through the door.

No one moves as Derek walks down the hallway and stops in front of the living room.

Stiles can't imagine the picture they make. Room destroyed; empty, bright green, two-liter soda bottles stacked precariously, feathers settling slowly like dust, and toilet paper everywhere: on the furniture, on the walls, on the ceiling - Stiles isn't even sure how that works - and every single one of them with eyes as big as saucers with the very distinct oh shit! we've been caught look plastered on their faces.

There's a moment of silence and Derek doesn't look like he knows how to react when the lightbulb Isaac was trying to remove falls out of its socket and shatters on the coffee table.

It's too much for Stiles. He breaks down into maniac laughter; gripping his sides and squeezing his eyes tight. He's gasping for breath and he's sure he's crying now, but it's just so goddamn funny.

His eyesight is blurry, but he looks up just in time, to see Derek chuck a toilet paper roll at his head and hit him with deadly accuracy. The impact catches him off guard and causes Stiles to fall over backwards. There's a beat of stunned silence after he disappears behind the walls of his fort.

Then Stiles pops up from behind his fort with the offending roll clutched in his hand, and screams "REVENGE!" as he climbs over the walls of slightly-less destroyed couch cushions, and over the rest of the furniture. Running towards Derek, who starts darting just out of Stiles reach with a small smirk on his face.

And just like that, everything dissolves into madness as everyone gangs up on Derek to take him down. There is more shrieking, the kind of delighted scream of false terror that normally only small children indulge in and so much laughter; it fills the walls with its bubbling sound. Everyone one is smiling. No matter where he looks he can see someone's face pulled into a smile.

And Stiles is so damn happy, this house feels alive in ways it hasn't in a long time. They all do.

* * *

** A/N: So, this started out as a fulfillment of the prompt and got away from me in very unexpected ways. Clearly a lot of headcanon and hopes for the future stuffed into this. (like rebuilding the Hale house and filling it with new memories). I just really want them all to be happy. They deserve a break and they are long overdue.

Inspired by the way your house gets destroyed when you leave hyperactive puppies unsupervised in your homes. I imagine it would be ten times worse with teenage werewolves.


End file.
